


You Did What In The Brig Of My Ship

by Swamp_Cat



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, fuck it, theres gay mermaid pirate shenanigans, theres gays, theres mermaids, theres pirates, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swamp_Cat/pseuds/Swamp_Cat
Summary: Grantaire adored the night. The night adored Grantaire, and the two together were in mutual agreement to wreak havoc and trade small intimacies. It was a physical being around him, and with the strings of his tenderly worn gittern, it thrummed headily to life.





	1. Yikes on the starboard side

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fic on here and I'm slightly cooler now :^)   
> there will be  
> -mermaids  
> -thievery  
> -pirates of the justice-y sort  
> -general idiocy   
> -good gay times

The tavern was a squalid one: the oil lamps flames fluttered through sooty glass, the floorboards stuck underfoot. The patrons were bastards and the women working the bar were wickedly lovely. 

It was the perfect little drinking hole for a job, and the girls were delighted. Bahorel simply split his crooked jaw into a grin upon seeing the crudely painted sign, and Feuilly even twitched his lip and twirled his mustache. 

Which indeed earned an impressed huff from from both Cosette and Musichetta, as most venues earned either disapproval or suspicion from the groups most talented accordion player. 

 

Everyone in their group, of course, could play the accordion. Most of them were polite enough not too, but Feuilly had a grudge against strings and asthma. A flute was out of the question. 

His lungs just wouldn’t have it. 

 

Grantaire, the one without a grudge against strings or asthma, was oozing with good mirth and confidence. This was a new island to the group, new marks, and it was his creed to be proficient in reading crowds.

The last time they took a job without him, it was a lovely bed and breakfast and they felt too connected with the charming old couple who owned the place to really pull the wool over their eyes like that. 

 

Cosette observed Grantaire’s slinky grace as they unpacked their cart, and she reevaluated it: it was not a foolish air on him. On Grantaire, arrogance sharpened itself against his deeply ingrained low sense of self and became darkly splendid. 

There was a cheerful tug in his mouth that seemed to say  _ I hear the people laughing behind my back and I will show them a damn good time anyway. _ At the same time, it was reckless and without a care. It was sexy, if you asked literally anybody. All that ridiculous contradiction pent up in one body. 

Grantaire always got the most time in the hay out of all of them, but that was sort of because everybody ended up sleeping with him at some point. There was somehow an air of ease about him at all times that ensured no awkwardness. 

It was endearing to the outside and inside eye, but as those on the inside also knew Grantaire was not a mind often at ease, it worried them. 

He assured them when they asked, without fail, that he was just fine. They did all the things they could to help him anyway. He loved them dearly. 

 

Cosette returned to the present as ‘Chetta brushed past her, giggling and already in her skirts. 

She herself grinned and began to dig through the piles of furs and pallets for her outfittings. 

 

_

 

Grantaire adored the night. The night adored Grantaire, and the two together were in mutual agreement to wreak havoc and trade small intimacies. It was a physical being around him, and with the strings of his tenderly worn gittern, it thrummed headily to life. 

 

The bastardly crowd of the tavern had evened out through the night, as news of entertainment was surely spread by the owner. There were young faces there, interesting characters, and not just because of the smell. 

Cosette and Musichetta were the dancers. 

The pair were a painting come to life: flowing, vivid skirts and brass bells, swaying like twin oceans. 

Their hair was the most marvelous; Musichetta with unbelievably soft chesnut curls, wild and trailing her spine, and Cosette with her gold gilded head like a cloud. When it was not time to work, they kept it in good care: Cosette by two plaits and a head cloth, Musichetta with complex small braids that she would explain to none of them but Feuilly, who already knew how they were done. 

They laughed at the rest of the group and muttered profanities foreign to their ears together, but got as good as they gave for teasing. 

Grantaire believed he shared their heritage, in a way, but was from somewhere very far from their home. All they knew was that he evaded questions about his family and origins, and that was okay with them. 

 

The first song of the night was meant as a warm up, for Grantaire’s voice and Bahorel’s pipes. His bagpipes. 

As expected, the patrons of the tavern became quickly invested in their simple ballads and swishing girls. After the initial song, Cosette dared to dip the first toe off the performing dias and started to weave herself between tables of customers, arms wild, caressing shoulders and jaws on her path through. Grantaire followed her with his eyes from his seat and counted the candle flames as they flickered out in her wake. 

 

Forty five minutes of drunken laughter and roaring requests later, it was time. Grantaire had at least three mugs of ale emptied already, all paid for by patron coin, and the rest of their envoy a handful of more silver than copper. A generous crowd. 

 

Grantaire’s calloused hands strummed a harsh last note on a jaunty drinking tune and Musichetta whipped to face him, effectively wiping out the last candle, leaving only the stars and sparse oil lanterns to light their story. 

 

He grinned, teeth gleaming in the small lights, and it was infectious. 

 

Feuilly started to play his accordion, and it was on. 

Grantaire sung. 

 

“ _ We are two mariners _ , _ a ship’s sole survivors, in this belly of a whale, _ ” 

 

_

 

When the performers cleared out, it took the three young men a few moments to come back to themselves. 

 

“That was…” 

 

“Certainly not something we have ever seen before.” 

 

“Could we really ever see anything in the likeness of that again?” 

 

This idea brought a wash of silence over them once more, before the bar lady came by the table to collect their money. They reached for their coin purses simultaneously, and the blonde man shook his head, chuckling a bit at the stand off. He makes to cut his companions off, to tell them the tab is on him, only to find he has misplaced his gold. 

 

“My apologies, just a moment.” He searches the ground, nothing. He turns to his friends, slightly panicked, feeling very foolish. 

When he looks up, though, they are just as confused. The man with dimples and curly hair- Courfeyrac- is patting his hip, where he knows he has left his purse, but it is gone. Combeferre, the blond man’s other companion and closest friend, is similarly at a loss. 

 

They all look to the bar maid, a lovely girl with glowing brown skin and wavy dark locks. She looks at them, clearly understanding better than they do the unseeming phenomenon that has taken place. 

 

“Shit.” Her teeth are straight and white when she grins, cat like. 

She laughs.

“That’ll be your thespians then, yeah.” She laughs again, louder, and to their dismay, simply begins to walk away. “I’ll let it go, but you best be chasing your money if you want to get off this rock. They couldn’t have left yet.” With a lazy hand, she gestures to the front doors of the tavern. 

 

“Enjolras-” Combeferre warns.

 

Enjolras is already gone. 

 

_

 

Grantaire is clearly glowing, revelling in their success a bit like a tick full of blood. Although that is mean spirited- Cosette wouldn’t say so, not really, but his smugness is unbearable. 

 

She is telling him just so as they are packing up their caravan, when an angel of vengeance hails down upon them. 

 

“You!” His voice burns, and his eyes are undoubtedly trained upon Grantaire. His wild blond hair, which seems to have been once held back by a ribbon, is transformed into a golden halo by the street lamp light and the damp. 

He is fierce, to be sure, but he is also so clearly a rich mans child that Cosette yawns rather prettily and makes her quick excuses to bed, thinking,  _ ‘Aire can handle this one.  _

 

Grantaire is having similar thoughts, although his version of handling takes a bit of artistic liberty. 

Very artistic. This man would be a legend on a canvas, he thinks. 

Especially because he wouldn’t be able to talk if he was made of paint. 

 

“You and your band of thieves have stolen my companion’s and my currency, and I demand that you return it to us.” He is only a few steps away now, and Grantaire recognizes him from the tavern, although that low lighting which was a necessary cover did no such good graces as the burning street lamp and starlight does now. 

He almost forgets how ridiculous his words are because of his delivery, which is that of a king, or what Grantaire imagines to be a king. Someone with a lot of conviction, surely. 

A king with a stick up his ass. 

Grantaire relishes the amber brown of his eyes, which are thickly lashed in a manner that is all too sweet for such a passionate, stick-up-the-ass person. Or maybe it suits him. It is aristocratic to a fault. 

 

Grantaire just smirks at him. He takes a few coins out of his own drawstring purse, rattles them in his hand. “This currency?” 

The fiery man’s eyes widen, but he makes no move. He seems wary, but unaware that this is in fact not actually his money. His money is probably up the skirts of Cosette or ‘Chetta, Aire has no idea. 

He takes a step back and braces his stance.

 

“Come take it.” 

 

The man stares at him, incredulous. “What?” 

 

Grantaire makes a show at thinking suddenly, and closes his fist of coins. The man visibly twitches. 

 

“No, you are right. That is silly of me.” The man is still staring.

Grantaire snaps his fingers.

“You must tell me your name first!”

 

His jaw drops open, and a mix between a scoff and a whine comes out. His entire body language reads disbelief, and the tell tale vulnerability of someone who really has never had to deal with this kind of thing before. Grantaire’s heart goes out to him as he valiantly fights back laughter. 

He shakes his fist, lets the coins rattle. 

“Go on.”

The man’s own fists clench, his jaw working furiously. 

 

“Enjolras.” 

  
  


“Enjolras…?” 

 

“It is just that.” 

 

Grantaire pouts and feigns thoughtfulness, peering at  _ Enjolras _ from beneath his lashes. 

 

“I don’t know…” 

 

“You said-!” Enjolras snaps forward suddenly, fast enough to make Grantaire giggle, sidestepping him so swiftly he stumbles into a crate of papayas. 

He expects an explosion, but this seems to humble Enjolras. He might even be flushing. 

Grantaire opens his palm once more. 

 

“Come on now, just take it from me. Take it, and you can have it.” He smiles at him, this time small and secret. Enjolras eyes his hand distrustfully, dusts off his brown coat. 

 

“That isn’t even my money, is it?” He sighs a small huff. 

 

Grantaire grins, closes his palm, slips the coins back into his bag. “Afraid not, sir.” Enjolras breathes a laugh, albeit a humorless one. 

He looks up from the cobbles, their eyes meet, and all at once Grantaire feels peculiarly overwhelmed. Like a warm spring has opened in his sternum, and there is so much that flows from it. Familiar things, so close against his mind that they are uncomfortable. He forces his gaze to the center of his nose instead. 

 

“I really do need my money back, at least. I don’t suppose you would… No.” Enjolras looks fully chastised as he turns to rejoin whoever his companions are in the tavern, but is brought up short by two men who have been directly behind him for quite some time. Presumably his companions. 

A quite undignified noise escaped Enjolras at this discovery, and although Grantaire cannot see, he has gone bright red. 

 

“I-” 

 

“Sorry about him, sir, but we really would love to have our money back.” The taller of the two spoke over Enjolras, a man who looked to be the same age as Grantaire who wore spectacles and a fine waistcoat. Grantaire liked the smart look about him, he was with enough sense to look comely but not overzealously wealthy. He made a decision then. Grantaire nodded sharply, business like, and strided to the caravan door. He rapped three times. 

 

“Cosette? These fine gentlemen here wish to have their gold back and I am rather inclined to acquiesce their request.” Grantaire put on a grand, airy voice. 

There was a muffled giggle inside. 

“Well sir, if the kind gentlemen wish it, sir.” Musichetta drew out her accent and Grantaire just knew she was fluttering her eyelashes at him from behind the door. He rolled his eyes, just barely, and the door cracked open to reveal three coin purses in ‘Chetta’s generous palms. Grantaire discovered, as he accepted them from her, that she had filled them with rocks. 

 

His friends let him play his games with the marks, but they would have no profit lost to nonsense. He appreciated it. 

 

_

 

The grin of the near-boy, when he turned back to them, was like a crescent moon and Combeferre had a crashing sensation. One part of the sensation was a mischievous shiver deep in his spine, and the other an intuition that this was a very, very bad thing. He glanced at Enjolras, only to see he’d somehow had the sense knocked out of him and his eyes were reflecting moons. 

He sighed. 

 

Combeferre drew out a hand to accept the money and stepped forward. “Alright then, we’ll just-” 

But the boy stepped back, swift like a bird jumping on thin legs.

 

Combeferre sighed again, long and suffering. Enjolras let out a squawk of indignation, and he got the feeling this wasn’t the first time. The boy carried on smiling. 

 

Combeferre inched to him, and he in turn inched back. He grit his teeth and summoned his will. 

It happened once more, and they made slow progress away from the tavern with the game. 

 

The boy giggled and ducked his head, and there was no helping it, no peace. “Oh, for the love of-” Courfeyrac uttered as he could see Combeferre snap, disappearing into the darkness after him. 

 

_

 

Cosette and Musichetta were winning the card game when they heard the rapid footsteps and curses outside. 

 

“Fools.” Feuilly muttered from behind his cigar.  Bahorel waved smoke out of his face and readjusted his hand. 

 

“I don’t understand why ‘Aire takes such fun in these games.” He grumbled. 

Cosette moved her bare legs so they were draped more comfortably on top of Musichetta. 

 

“He just likes fucking around, he gets so restless when we make him sit.” They shared a giggle at the thought of a restless Grantaire, who was never any good and always irritable. 

 

“You remember the con when we had to pretend to be good lawful musicians for a full week? He wouldn’t stop flirting with all the rich sons and daughters, almost got us arrested trying to get some in a broom closet.” The caravan fills with raucous laughter. Feuilly shakes his head, knocks ash off his cigar. They settle into happy sighs. 

 

“Oh, hell!” All but Bahorel fall back into cackling as they throw down their hands and reveal his bad luck. 

“Yes, yes, very funny.” He grumbles. 


	2. Timmy Gets Stuck In a Cave And Has His First Queer Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets easily fed up with dumb shit for someone who is the master purveyor of dumb shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update schedule? what the fucks that

The cobblestones were slick and yellowed in lamp light, the alleyways narrow and winding. Their footsteps echoed against the buildings, along with quick labored breaths and occasional giggles. Grantaire hopped over crates of melons, past blushing ladies and respectable gentlemen when they happened past small boutiques and flower shops. By the seedier places, beautiful women and handsome men, dark characters in dark vestments and once, a wizard. He looked back periodically, making sure the man was still giving harried chase. 

As they came to the edge of the populated town, the land filled with tall pines and vegetation, the only buildings residential cabins. 

They were on an island though. They ran and raced, and soon the homes became sparse and there was nothing but cliff face and the crashing call of the sea.

 

Grantaire turned, letting the whipping wind steal away at his trousers. They had left the warm lamp light behind for the cool blues of night, surrounded by pine trees and high boulders of the promontory. The man in the cool waistcoat appeared tired and triumphant before him. He put out his palm and smiled like a good sport, but Grantaire was not done. 

 

Before he could pull his trick, the man’s friends burst from the trees behind him shouting his name, only to come to an abrupt stop. 

 

“Please god, just give us our money?” Is the first thing said, and by Enjolras. Who is now disheveled, small wicked gold curls sticking to the sides of his sweat slicked face. Who is, gosh, still really pretty. Grantaire smiles at him, and it might just come out dreamy. 

He sighs, out of breath and discreetly holding his sides. 

 

“You’ve got no luck at all, hon.” He takes a long step backward, until his heels flirt with the edge of the cliff. He drops the purses of rocks at his feet. 

 

“Not everybody will be so kind,” He says.  And then he steps backward into empty air. 

_

 

Enjolras shrieks when the man disappears over the edge, Courfeyrac sucks in a breath as though struck, and Combeferre. 

Combeferre jumps over the edge after him. 

 

Courfeyrac has Enjolras in a headlock before he can even fidget, and there is silence and muffled protestations, then a pitiful spash to be heard over the crashing of the waves. 

 

As the two struggle comes Courfeyrac’s frustrated roar.

“You must be FUCKING KIDDING ME.” 

 

_

 

The water is a rush of bubbles, the inverse of crashing waves against rocks, a comforting swish against his skin even as he is held down by the weight of his clothes. He just sinks for the most part, letting the rush and tide carry him. Feels the transformation taking him, the rush of adrenaline that shoots up his spine and through his fins, and he giggles and gives one tight spiral push to shoot away from the shore and into the drop off. 

 

Moonlight filters in beautiful wide rays through the water, and he is lucky enough to have caught a school of small silver fish as they flash away from him and into the night. 

The water is cool and heavenly on his gills, and he pulls his curls until they float about him and leave his neck exposed, inky like the devil in the blue water. 

He hasn’t been in the true ocean for at least a fortnight. It was a blessing to be cleansed by the salt and away from the grease and muck of horses, thinking of his siblings, breathing properly & right for the first time in ages. 

 

At least, it was all calm and good until this  _ dumb asshole _ came plummeting in. Grantaire just  _ had _ to do a double take, because  _ seriously _ ? Off of a  _ cliff _ ? He dropped the money on the ground for a reason. Even if he hadn’t, what kind of  _ idiot _ ? What kind? 

When the bubbles cleared, Grantaire was shocked to see the man had his eyes open and was attempting to swim towards him. He shuffled back a bit, because sure, it was dark, but a rock would notice he didn’t exactly have pants on anymore. 

It didn’t do much good and the man made much better progress through the waves then he would’ve imagined possible for someone in such tight clothes. He was looking around, obviously trying to find Grantaire, who took the opportunity to edge behind some of the rocks jutting out of the cliff face. 

Fucking idiots. 

_

 

The water was as clear as it got, but it was all for naught as Combeferre was blind as a bat on a good day and the salt stung terribly. The cold was jarring but he became adjusted to it and began to swim forward, heart pumping in his chest from the fall and his fear for the man who went before him. 

As he searched the rocks and sea plants, and tried to ignore his growing need for air, he pondered wildly upon what on earth could have caused the young thespian to simply step backwards into the ocean, for God’s sake. It was an island, and locals could be expected to swim well, but Combeferre knew near all folk you could meet had never even had a proper bath, let alone a dip off a cliff and into the deep. He came to the conclusion quite readily that this particular individual was very experienced with the ocean, as their maimed body was nowhere to be found and they were illuding him successfully despite the openness of the shore and the light provided by the moon. 

 

He startled as he came across the drop off suddenly, and realized with a jolt that he couldn’t ignore his lungs screams any longer. 

When he broke the surface and took a lungful of air, he cast about one more look to the rocks before making his way through the brackish water while doing his best to keep his nose above the waves. 

 

Foam sprayed when he finally managed to drag himself into a sandy cove that pocketed the steep cliff face, and he lay on his back for some time just panting and relishing land.

 

Sitting up, he could see the deep tidewater grooves of the rock walls around him, briny white markings about three feet from the sand marking high tide. The air was permeated by fish smell, and the dry part of the small shore was littered with bits of driftwood and net. 

 

Combeferre sighed and tucked his soaked legs in tighter against the chill. 

 

_

 

“Stupid, foolish, reckless-” Grantaire pulled stringy seaweed and shark purses from himself as he flopped up the beach on wobbly legs. 

 

“ _ Idiot! _ ” He caught sight of the very subject of his ire before him, clasped tight into himself and shivering, like he well deserved. He looked back at him like a startled deer, and Grantaire set his weight upon one foot and put his hands to his wide hips forcefully, doing his best to appear intimidating in nothing but his shirtsleeves. Many a pair of breeches had been sacrificed in the name of dramatic entrances and exits and so forth, and he had the stuff to make it work at this point. 

The poor dandy’s mouth began to flop open and closed, as his eyelids fluttered in confusion as well. Grantaire supposed, what with the wet shirt and the no pants, that his silhouette was much changed. 

 

Most people didn’t notice the curve of his chest with the wide necked linen shirts he so preferred, and tight waistcoats or structured overcoats were so in fashion that he rarely had to wrap his breasts in order to create the boxy chest structure that human men were so fond of. 

He had found the timbre of his voice and his bodies excessive amount of hair made most people comfortable and sure of themselves with his gender, which he found convenient, if ignorant, and at worst insulting. 

 

Grantaire had no patience for fooling or explanations tonight, though, and he stomped with curt steps and placed two fingers under the man's jaw to snap shut his gaping maw for him. 

 

“Grow up.” 

 

He walked past him and farther into the cove, wrinkling his nose at the dead fish stink. He took his hands and wrung out his sopping curls before finding the small drawing at the base of the cave wall, kicking the sand away at the bottom of it, and stooping over to open the small underground store. 

 

‘I-I-” 

Grantaire snorted through the man's stuttering and pulled out a bottle of rum. He turned with his back to the wall, and let his feet fall out from under him and his backside into the sand. Fitting his teeth around the rum cork, he pulled, spit, and took a healthy swig. 

He swallowed with some effort. 

 

“Sir, you have caused me an unfortunate amount of stress.” 

Another swig.

“And I have lost a good, decent pair of trousers to this.” 

Another.

“Have you got anything to offer me better than such a respectable pair of trousers?” 

 

The man opened his mouth.

 

“No, don’t answer that, trust me, you haven't.” 

 

The man’s eyes were round and silver as spoons, somehow still bespectacled through all the waterworks. He swallowed visibly, but said nothing. Grantaire sighed and rolled his eyes. 

 

“What is your name?” He said. It took the man some time to process the question. 

 

“C-Combeferre.” He responded with some hesitance. Grantaire leaned forward onto his knees and offered up his rum free palm. It was a bit of a stretch, but Combeferre managed to meet him and give him a firm shake. 

 

“I am Grantaire. And yes, fool, I am a man.” 


	3. There Are Parts of My Life I Wasn't Alive For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was high for a lot of this, so it's probably fucking wild! Have fun guys!

“So…” Combeferre drew out the syllable. Grantaire took a deep pull from the rum bottle that had been mysteriously lifted from the earth. 

 

“How did you lose your pants?” He asked with a breath. The wind whistled through the awkwardly charged silence. 

Grantaire gave him a slow, pointed side eye, and Combeferre felt it deeply and shamefully. Returning his gaze to the sea before them, he contemplates. What in the name of the good lord was wrong with him? There are not many things to do in such a situation as he has found himself in, but one of the things  _ not _ to do was definitely  _ try and make conversation about nakedness. Get a  _ grip,  _ Combeferre.  _

 

Grantaire heaves a deep, comically forlorn sigh. 

 

_

 

Combeferre doesn’t know how long they’ve been inside the tiny cove, but he does know they are almost out of rum and the fire is simply  _ mesmerising. _

Grantaire is lying on his back languidly next to him, running his fingers through the sand and cackling delightedly. Combeferre turns to watch dumbly, eyes away from the embers, and begins to giggle himself. This only spurs Grantaire further, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he draws in stuttering gasps between the unruly and rib-cracking laughter. 

Combeferre plops onto his back in the sand next to him and feels the comforting rumble of the sea echo them. Grantaire falls into hiccups and sighs. 

Combeferre feels the stars through the rock roof- feels them in the lichen and the bugs. He feels the cool sand under his fingerpads and lets the ocean ring through his body. His fingers move- up, up, to his sides, like he could just graze the edges of the earth and hold on by his nails. Solidness escapes him and he is hot air drifting through the night. 

 

He presses his right cheek into the sand to look at Grantaire next to him. To his wonder and surprise, he sees Grantaire is already up on a curved elbow and watching him right back. 

The bright, brown gaze runs him through as though a blade made of sparks. There is a moment that holds clear as a note in his ears, shining brightly through senses he could not hold in his eye. 

 

The precariously stilled energy of Grantaire before him seemed to seep through the yellow sand to stain the hem of his sleeve, and Combeferre tasted the edges of something he had only ever found before within music. 

After a drawn out deliberation took place in the shadows of Grantaire’s face, he finally blinked and set his jaw. 

 

“You wear fine clothes, sir.” He said. 

The voice was such a small sound, wedged between the sea and the nook-pocketed rocks. 

“You come here with so much money between only three travelers. You have a look about you.” 

The air hung heavy in the silence. 

 

“I wonder how you come about this place, this isle. I want to know what’s here for you.” 

 

The flames of the fire seemed to become sluggish, light stroking across cave walls, swaying in rhythm to crashing water. Combeferre finds himself sitting up to meet this stranger. He feels that tug in his gut that had pulled him across the sea with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and he becomes temporarily entirely submerged in memory. The phantom ache of desperation and restlessness that had driven his feet off land thumped inside him now, and he told Grantaire. He told him of the suffocating stillness of walls, how the sound of tapestries scuffing against stone in a draft could kill him but the bustle of the street was a psalm. Of Enjolras, the gatekeeper of fire, a boy who could set you & himself ablaze, just with the friction of his chafing against the world. Of Courfeyrac, who to this day could speak faster and smarter, sassier, than anyone he had met, his terrible flirting, his temper short as anything. He balled his hands into fists on his knees until he could not stand to keep from gesturing, running his hands through his hair and tugging at his lapels. 

 

Grantaire was agape in front of him, enraptured, breathing but still as he soaked in Combeferre’s words. 

Combeferre told him of their investigations and discreet inquiries, the adrenaline of uncovered truths and the betrayal of the lies that had covered so much of the three’s collective lives. Mothers and Fathers could not be trusted and with that gone, they had nothing but each other.  

 

Courfeyrac was the one who had made them pirates. 

 

Even when they had been land locked, Courfeyrac was the one with friends. His social connections were wide and jovial, and if he talked long enough he could charm anything with a pulse. Their parents estates had always been sea shore affairs, and any 16 year old knows how to sneak into a tavern: Enjolras was ready to go anywhere, Courfeyrac was ready to take him there, Combeferre was ready to guide them. 

It began as apprenticeships on boats with fisherman, learning ropes and stars. Skilled steel workers came through at festivals and markets, and between the three’s privilege and collective charisma, they were armed. 

 

With Enjolras at 17, Combeferre 18, and Courfeyrac the same, they left for the first time. The resulting four year journey was trial and error with many, many errors. They were lucky to only have so many scars, lucky to have their lives. 

 

Combeferre told Grantaire of their crew, grinning the whole way through. First Joly and Bossuet, Joly a medical practitioner and Bousset the cook, but both skilled in wit. He spoke of Marius Pontmercy, the ruffled but perseverant son of a lord they rescued three years into their odyssey. Floreal and Louison had been maids at the worst inn Combeferre had ever had the displeasure to give money too, with no fault on their part. 

 

The words were coming with such natural flow that he barely noticed as his secrets slipped out right beside them. Grantaire learned what they were looking for, and who. They wanted to make the ocean safe, he said, for any man and any pirate. 

They wanted to kill the Kraken. 

 

After this was said, Grantaire could only stare. When he realized Combeferre was entirely somber and that  _ he actually meant it  _  he began to laugh. Not because he doubted the Krakens existence- he knew very well it's wrath- but because he knew it's allegiances, and if these pirates knew of the Kraken, it was because they had run into it. Only people don't just  _ run into _ the Kraken. Yes, these three young men had somehow gotten on the bad side of Davy Jones himself. Either him or the ocean herself, and Grantaire doubted that very much. 

 

It was some time before he had the will to speak without smiling. Combeferre looked vaguely frustrated.  

 

“You-” He was accosted by more laughter. “How? How did you do it?” Combeferre avoided his gaze. 

 

“Oh, my lucky stars! You poor thing! Only- what, 20? 22? And-!” He scrunched up his nose through the giggles. “I am sorry.” He clears his throat. 

 

“You are a fantastic creature, sir. I marvel at your tales- so young and so restless. Your eyes must be tied to stars.” He leans in close and looks up into Combeferre face, more or less forcing him to meet his eyes. He blinks slowly and taps the dark skin right between his eyes. 

“Yes. A string right here. I wonder what it is woven of? Maybe Sir Enjolras could tell me. Maybe fire.” 

 

Grantaire leaned back again, slouched onto his heels. Combeferre followed him and worked his lips around with his brows, trying to decide. He looked to the ocean, opened his mouth, closed it again and looked back. 

 

“You call me young, but to me, I would call you much younger by looking at your face.” 

Grantaire became smug. 

“And... when you are not looking at my face?” Grantaire pushed his chest out and tossed his curls with his words, hooding his eyes and pouting his lips. Combeferre scoffed and flushed, but ultimately didn't take the bait. 

“I would call you much older. In- in your words, I can hear years. Though they are far and few in between they are measured and aged, with some kind of experience I admit I do not understand. Would you-?” 

Grantaire backed down, disappointed and approving all at once. 

“I am older than you, but younger than the old trees in the west.” He deliberated as he examined his nails. Combeferre was bewildered, and he moved to express it. 

“This is a riddle-”

 

“You don't like riddles? I am afraid then that I must go, sir.” Grantaire shook his head as he spoke, feigning innocence so suddenly and surprisingly convincingly. Combeferre cried out as he rose as though to leave, and cringed when Grantaire laughed and sat back down. He patted the hand Combeferre had outstretched, who blinked and put it back down without remembering when he had moved to pull him back. Grantaire sighed and looked at his knees. 

 

“Go to sleep, sir.” 

The rest was darkness. 


End file.
